What makes a Man break (second rambling)
by Aednat the Fourteenth
Summary: "It was almost impossible to know what could make you break until it happened." Or the day Porthos ran away from the battlefield, and what made him change his mind. - Set between seasons 2 and 3. Tag for season 3, episode 7, "Fool's Gold". Rated M for some graphic depiction of violence (well, it's war).


**_MissRedHead82 wanted something about the time Porthos fled from the front, as he admits to Élodie in season 3, episode 7, "Fool's Gold," before changing his mind. I thought it was a good start for my second "rambling". Hope you'll like it._**

 ** _A huge thank to Pika-la-Cynique and Kevin for the proofreading!_**

xxxx

It was almost impossible to know what could make you break until it happened, Porthos reflected.

He had killed many people. At the _Court_ , first, because you had to defend yourself. He was eleven the first time, and the fact that he couldn't remember the reason said a lot about his childhood. He would like to claim that he never took a life unprovoked, but that would be a lie. There was an accident, while snatching an old lady's purse. It had snowed in the morning, the muddy floor was frozen and unsafe and he had trouble keeping his balance, so maybe his hand was heavier or his moves clumsier than usual. Anyway, she felt him touching her skirt and was startled, and one of her feet slipped. She fell and he watched in dreadful disbelief as her body toppled backwards and her head connected with the ground with a sharp noise. He stood there, the pouch in his hand, looking at her cracked skull and the blood that started to stain the half-melted ice, until Flea grabbed his arm – "What the Hell are you waitin' for?" – and forced him to run.

There was also cold-blooded murder. Like the time he stabbed a man who was only trying to defend himself. A _chevalier_ , unwilling to be robbed by a "half-breed mongrel", as he said, and Porthos kept thinking that maybe that was the reason why he had put the knife between his ribs, hoping that, eventually, he would forget that no word had been exchanged until his victim lay on his back. That was the day he started to question his existence. Three years later, he joined the army, four and Captain Treville made him a cadet. He had murdered many people in the meantime.

After that, the slaying became official. And honorable, insofar as slaying could be, he forced to remind himself, not liking the cynical slip of his thoughts. He killed to help the innocent, and to maintain peace in France. He killed to protect himself, his brothers and his king and queen and, yes, at last, never took a life unprovoked.

He had liked going to war. Had fancied the idea of defending his country and the people he loved, alongside his brothers – well, most of them. And he liked, he understood now, the heat of the combat, that kept his mind busy, and allowed him to focus on something other than what he couldn't help but call a betrayal.

Aramis was not here.

He had left the Musketeers to find peace in a life of prayer, which was probably the most delusional thing he had ever done, but not the most surprising, because there had been _plenty_ of minor ones before. What was unforeseen, though, was the fact that he hadn't changed his mind after being informed about the war.

It had taken all Athos's diplomacy to keep Porthos from yelling things he would have regretted later. So, instead, he yelled things that would still hurt but not destroy almost ten years of friendship.

And then, gladly went to war.

He had been in battles before, but this was something else. At La Rochelle, he'd seen men die from malnutrition and the ensuing scurvy, lose limbs, bleed to death, in so much pain that they begged for a charitable hand to finish them off, or so mentally incapacitated that you had to wonder if it was right to let them live. Once, the sea returned back the bloated and purple remains of three soldiers it had claimed a week before, and even Aramis turned a bit green in turn at the sight.

All these things he saw again here, save from the sea-dead – still, he _did_ witness people drown in the mud. But there was more. Both sides were constantly trying either to capture ground or to keep it against repeated assaults. The fights seemed endless, the soldiers slept in snatches of three or four hours, everyone was beyond exhaustion, and they were under the command of this incompetent general who didn't give a rat's ass.

But he hanged on. Never complained – as he had time for that!, never lost his focus, never stopped guarding his brothers' back, never panicked and certainly never thought of fleeing like some did.

He was fairly certain nothing could break him.

xxxx

There had been four charges today.

Three times, they had forced their horses against the enemies', only to gain about thirty yards. He knew, because there was a very big rock, just before the Spanish lines, that looked like an elephant.

He had never seen a real elephant before, obviously, but there had been a drawing in one of his books. The one about Africa, that Aramis had bought for him after he'd told him he sometimes wondered where his mother had grown up. He had been amazed at the strangeness of what he had read and seen in these pages, how far everything was from his life and from what he cared for. That had been very unsettling and he had even felt a bit guilty at not being that interested in the reading, after all. It was a year after he had joined the Musketeers. He had been shown how to ride, and to fight like a soldier and not a nasty alley cat, and Treville, then Aramis, had taught him how to read, without telling anyone. He was desperately eager to belong, at the time and, even if most of his brothers never mentioned the color of his skin and where he came from, he could read their faces better than the letters he still struggled with. He had run away from the everlasting, necessary but blind violence of the _Court_ , run away from Charon and Flea, and all his friends, to become a good person, but he still felt out of place and wondered if that was because there was something of Africa in him.

There was not. Of course, there was not. He was born and raised in Paris and had never set a foot out of France.

"You're more French than I am," Aramis confirmed, over a glass of wine. "The others, they just… They are the problem, not you. But they'll learn. They will. I'm sure they will. We all have our pasts, but here, in the end, nothing matters more than how you behave in a fight. And they will see that no one deserves respect more than you do, my friend. Trust me."

Surprisingly enough, Aramis was right. Some missions later, after he had saved his new brothers' lives and they had returned the favor time and again, the looks ceased, and it was as if he had never been anything but a good companion and one of the best soldiers in the regiment. And they did respect him. Some of them even said they were sorry for the way they had treated him before.

He was not entirely safe from the belittling. There were still plenty of nasty wry smirks outside the garrison's walls, some snappy remarks, mostly from the Red Guards, muttered behind his back but designed to be overheard, some persiflage while he walked the palace's alleys, but he belonged. He was a Musketeer. He had a family. And he didn't give a damn about Africa.

He still loved the book, though. It had taught him something, even if not what he expected, and it was the first gift his best friend had gotten him.

And, well, there was an elephant in it.

The same elephant that this big rock was shaped like, revealing clearly how little ground they had gained in one week.

Porthos was no scholar, but he knew his math, and dozens of human losses every three feet was not a satisfactory equation.

xxxx

Six days ago, the Musketeers fought alongside the men of the second cavalry regiment, among them Thierry De Bièvres, a veteran who was back in service after losing his wife to influenza. He was a very nice fellow, of a particularly good disposition that let him find humor in the most dreadful situations. He once told them about the death of his father, at the hands of burglars he had chased while obviously far too old for this kind of undertaking, and somehow contrived to make it hilarious.

At one point, Athos, D'Artagnan, De Bièvres and himself, along with three other men, were separated from the troops. It was raining cannonballs and Athos ordered them to dismount and led everyone to a nearby slope to take shelter. Porthos was already lying on the ground when they realized that De Bièvres was having a hard time keeping up. D'Artagnan slowed down a bit to support the old soldier, whose left thigh was bleeding, his leg threatening to give way anytime it hit the ground. When both men finally reached the relative shelter of the incline, D'Artagnan stumbled on a root and Porthos extended his arm to help De Bièvres, who took his hand with a quick thankful smile, before his head was ripen apart.

For half a second, Porthos just stood here, the dead man's hand in his, only realizing when Athos yelled: "Down!" that a cannonball had just missed him and D'Artagnan and taken half of De Bièvres's face before exploding fifty feet away.

Then, they were all covered in mud, De Bièvres's blood was dripping all over him, and he was pretty sure he felt some solid parts, that he refused with all his willpower to recognize, sliding down his cheeks. The rest of the man's body was standing there, right in front of him, still holding his hand, his left leg, with some devious sense of humor, willing to support him again, and the lower part of his jaw still in place. It looked like he was grinning, giving everyone a quite literal half-smile.

Porthos snorted before someone – D'Artagnan, he comprehended afterward – threw himself on him, casting both of them to safety down the slope. He was still chuckling, sprawled on his back, when his young friend straightened up and gave him a slightly worried look.

It had been a close call, but he had not broken.

xxxx

Their fourth charge today was worse than the previous ones, because it was getting dark, cold, and even wetter. Half of the men were on the verge of collapse, the other half not aware enough to care, and there were still bodies on the ground, so their horses had to trample them. Since the morning, little by little, anger had risen among the men and, now, they were close to hating general Lantier more than the Spanish.

Hate was a strange companion, Porthos's half-awake brain mused while he sunk his sword into a Spaniard's chest. He had rarely felt it, and certainly not for the enemy. He guessed some people had to despise their opponents to live with all the lives they took, but he was more rational. He knew there were higher matters at stake, and that part of being a soldier was to not question them. He didn't like that, but he accepted it. And, even when things got desperate, fighting for his brothers, was motivation enough to keep going.

A Spaniard's blade hissed by his right ear and he almost lost his balance when his fist collided with the man's nose. He was tired. So, very, very tired that only reflexes acquired by years of training were keeping him alive. He briefly took reassurance in the knowledge that the Spaniards were in the same state, but he was aware that would not save him indefinitely. He hated relying on pure luck. That was why he always cheated at cards. Well, that, and the money.

He was not sure when and why his mount had finally collapsed but, next thing he knew, he was down on his side, stuck in the muck under the horse's dead weight. Not so dead, actually, he reflected, because the animal weakly protested when he tried to push it away from him. He managed to slide his body from the trap, thanking the mud for the first time since the conflict had begun. His leg was still stuck, though, when he felt the shadow over him. He looked up to face the man that would take his life. He was not tall, nor muscular, and seemed very young. He lifted his sword a bit too late. In good shape, Porthos, even as restrained as he was now, would have all the time in the world to knock him over. But Porthos was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and he just contemplated, with some incredulity, the rookie who would end him not even measuring his achievement. The boy's limbs shook a little and Porthos wondered if it was because he was tired or afraid, before deciding on a mixture of excitement and guilt that reminded him too well of someone very dear to him. His mind was sharper than he'd believed, he realized, so why was he so damn tired? His exhaustion was getting him killed, and he didn't want to die. Oh, God, he did not want to die! He wondered if the boy would learn anything from this fight. Would he be more confident, next time? Crueler or more compassionate? Porthos had seen some men turn into reckless fools after their first day on the front. Like nothing could bring them down, then. Some were just overwhelmed, and others didn't seem to care. In the end, they were all almost as likely to die just the same. He wanted the boy to survive. If someone was to kill him, he wanted him to do something with his life, especially if he seemed nice. This lad seemed nice. When did he start to care about these things? This was war. It didn't discriminate.

There was a time when _he_ did.

His next thought was that it was amazing the number of things that could cross a mind in the milliseconds before death. It was quite a waste, though. What would a rotting corpse do with the ensuing knowledge?

A blade plunged into the boy's chest and he was down. His sword felt right next to Porthos's torso, so he automatically seized it, meeting Athos's worried eyes. Only then did he understand that his brother had just saved his life, but he didn't manage to plaster a grateful expression on his face because the older man was already back in combat. Porthos had just the time to finally get his leg from under the horse before he had to repel a new assailant.

He blinked and noticed the rock shaped like an elephant, behind a row of Spanish infantry soldiers.

Wait… _behind_?

It was on _their_ ground two hours ago!

Most people were on foot, now. Sliding in the mud before being trampled over by their desperate fellows. Everything and everyone was brown and sticky, and it was getting more and more difficult to tell friend from foe, so he started trusting his ears more, and simply making his way through the fray by slaughtering anyone who either tried to kill him or sounded Spanish. That seemed suitably practical, and he didn't care enough to be more specific. He was really tired but he couldn't sleep. Nobody slept on a battlefield, and, even if he could find some kind of shelter, maybe behind the elephant, it was so damn noisy that it wasn't even worth trying, was it? He was sick of killing, especially young lads who reminded him of Aramis, who wasn't here, when he should be. For the first time, he realized that with Aramis' mother having been Spanish, there'd been a chance that his best friend might have been on the other side. What were the odds? What had it taken to make them brothers instead of enemies? He struck a heavy guy coming at him right in the head.

One down. Hundreds to go.

Hundreds of men made of mud, all equal in the face of death.

One slave's son, determined to find his place, one former _conte_ , running away from his memories, one farm boy whose quest for vengeance led him to become one of the King's fiercest Musketeers. What were the others' stories?

 _Stop thinking about this!_

He would slay them all, to get out of this mess.

He didn't want to die.

Didn't want to give his life for a stone elephant that kept switching sides.

One big man, bigger than even him, with such a gentle face it shined through the muck, the blood and the rage; one slender guy with an enormous scar down his cheek (what had he survived to get it?); two very young lads who didn't see him coming and died without knowing it; one so old he shouldn't even be here (why, why, why had he enlisted?).

He would get away.

He didn't care how, but he would get away.

He would not die.

He didn't want to kill these people, who had their own stories, but they were in his way and he wanted to run far, far away, because he was afraid.

He was afraid.

Oh, merciful God, he was so afraid!

xxxx

The ground was uneven, the moon almost full, the silence a blessing.

He was walking, alone and safe.

He was thinking about Marsac.

He had never liked the man very much. Never understood his friendship with Aramis. It was true that Aramis usually got along with everyone, which was a bit unexpected considering how impudently he acted, but Porthos had often witnessed how his charm and wits could get him out of the trickiest situations. Also, as selfish and immature as the man could sometimes be, he was absolutely devoid of malice. That was a rare thing, and people probably sensed it.

Anyway. Marsac had never been a bad person, he guessed. He was an excellent soldier, at any rate: smart, collected, an accomplished swordsman, respectful of orders but not afraid to question the morality of them. Still, there was something unnerving about him. Something in the way he looked down on people for no good reason. He was from old nobility, on his mother's side, but the family was not wealthy, so he'd still had to work hard to achieve his goals. The combination gave him a right both by birth and by personal inclination to behave like an overblown prick. Yet, Aramis liked him and, as much as Porthos resented the man, he had to grant him that he could be a nice fellow to hang out with. Brave, down to earth, kind of entertaining, and even able to admit some of his weaknesses in spite of his snobbery.

So, at some point, he just accepted the fact that he and Marsac just showed an incompatibility of temperament that didn't prevent them from working together, and they got along fine.

And then, there was Savoy, and Aramis was never the same again. Sure, he was still affectionate, high-spirited and apparently optimistic, but his general demeanor was totally different. Maybe you had to know him very well to notice but, before Savoy, Aramis was not often wary while talking to strangers; there was seldom that tension in his eyes, these quick worried glazes, in taverns, when his back was not to a wall; he was hardly inclined to mask his feelings in the presence of his friends and he never, ever, hesitated before welcoming a new guy into their circle.

Some weeks after he was back, after the most obvious signs of trauma faded away, he was still, and would forever be, unable to give full credence to anyone. Athos and Porthos became the only people he trusted, and even that had required a significant probation time.

And still, from time to time, Porthos sensed that their friend tested their honesty. It was not personal, and he was probably not aware of doing it, but it was there anyway, and it hurt.

And it was Marsac's fault.

Now, draped in blood and mud under the full moon, Porthos realized that he had nurtured hate before.

He had hated Marsac.

And he knew that, behind his respectful and lenient composure, Athos had felt the same. Aramis told them repeatedly that they shouldn't judge the man. He'd saved his life, after all, and yes, he had left him alone in the forest, to freeze to death with twenty corpses for sole company, but "You should have seen his face! He was… he was terrified, and ashamed, and he just… He just…"

He just broke.

Marsac had broken. This brave and proud soldier, so aware of his skills, who had probably never imagined that anything could bring him down before he faced it.

Porthos wanted to hate Marsac. He needed it.

Marsac was a coward. A deserter. He had abandoned his friend, almost gotten him killed because, what… _feelings_?

Everybody had feelings! Porthos had plenty of feelings, right now! He was exhausted, well, that wasn't strictly speaking a feeling but that was definitely part of his mood, he was confused, and sad, and terrified, and ashamed and he just… He just…

He had broken.

He had not merely gotten away from this mess of mud, corpses, blades, shouts and turmoil. He had fled.

He was fleeing right now.

He was abandoning his best friends.

D'Artagnan, who tackled him down, out of the rain of cannonballs that had taken De Bièvres's life. Athos who saved him, what? Two hours ago?

He didn't even know if they were alive!

Was the fight over?

Did they reclaim the elephant rock?

He couldn't hear the sounds of the battle from where he was, and he needed to know.

He needed to be by his friends' sides. Needed to keep them safe. He needed to bring them back to Paris, after all was over, and maybe visit Aramis who probably prayed for them every day.

How could he flee from his family?

He noticed that he had stopped moving, and turned around to see where he was. Even with the help of the moon, the night didn't make it easy, but he could still perceive some lights, in the distance. He had walked about five miles, he estimated. Not bad for an exhausted man with mud up to his ankles. He chuckled.

What had he been thinking?

xxxx

Back at the camp, drained but happy, he found Athos and D'Artagnan in the infirmary. None of them looked hurt, though, and both rushed at him as soon as he entered the big tent.

"Where have you been?" Athos asked, but it sounded more like an exclamation than a question, which was a bit startling coming from such a phlegmatic man.

"Well, on the battlefield!" he answered. "'been stuck under me horse for a while. Why?" he added with a hesitant smile, while D'Artagnan, after a quick examination of what he could see of his body through the thick dry mud, forced him to lift his arm, as to ensure he was not hiding some mortal wound under it. "You didn't think I deserted, did you?"

"No, you idiot! We thought you were dead!"

 _Oh._

Of course they would have been worried sick. That was what families were when one of them went missing.

He could see anger on their faces, and that could have something to do with the fact that he was still grinning like an imbecile. But he couldn't stop. So he just gently brushed D'Artagnan's hands away with a reassuring nod and clapped Athos's shoulder.

"How could I be dead," he answered finally, "when I have so much to live for?"

 **FIN**


End file.
